Through the Glass
by editor frog
Summary: During his inspection of the missing children's dormitory in TRF, Sherlock seems to walk through and even mimic what might have taken place that fateful night. What if there's a reason behind that?
1. Chapter 1

The squeak of floorboard at the middle third of the corridor told him everything. It was a grating squeak, like nails grinding into the slate panels that hung in every classroom. Most of his housemates took care to avoid it at all costs.

He didn't bother to look about. He was the only one in the room, a casualty of the summer holidays and the diplomatic corps dispatching Father and Mother to some far-flung region _(he was fair with his geography, but recent events were making it impossible to keep up)_. God knew where Mycroft was—starting that internship, most like, but the news of it had bored Sherlock to tears.

The footsteps were heavy; weighted, as though what caused them favored one side over the other _(right, it had to be, given the squeak)_. It was the presence of another set of them that put the thin chill down the twelve year old's nearly-exposed spine.

There was no one in the room. It was a third floor arrangement _(more stairs, but quieter roommates)_, so trying for the windows wasn't an option. Even if he had, there were no sills to balance on, no architectural landings or rails to gain a footing. Though he didn't mind heights, Sherlock knew it was impossible for human beings to safely take flight.

Passing his end table, he crept near the bed next to his—Neville's, a quiet sort who fancied cricket—and found the bottle of linseed oil tucked under the mattress. _"Never know when it might come handy,"_ Neville had said, after most of the others had bollocked him for oiling his bat in their quarters. _"Despite the smell."_

The shadows at the door began to grow deeper; he had only seconds. Sherlock's eyes widened at the shape of a weapon in a hand that was gaining in size with each breath.

_Come on, come on,_ he willed, working at the stubborn screw top of the oil bottle. Relief flooded over his thin frame as it slowly began to work off the caked threads of the bottleneck. Long thin hands coated themselves in the smelly lubricant, taking care to glide over the soles of his house shoes while thickly smearing a generous puddle onto the floor around him.

"Little brat should be asleep, yeah?" a voice oozed, stopping Sherlock cold. The little boy took one last look around him, spying the empty beds, the spent bottle, and the feel of chilled oil nipping into his hands.

He cast his eyes on his books: several by Fleming, a shelf full of Stout's detectives, a few on criminology, and one by some doctor named Joseph Bell that Mycroft assured him he would like. Oddly enough, he _had._

"Dunno 'bout this one," another voice wheezed, and it was painfully familiar to Sherlock's ears. "Never seems to sleep. Or mind that others might need it."

Thinking fast, Sherlock flattened his hand against the flaking paint in the wall. He knew from his reading that there was a high chance the fingerprints would stand out, if one knew _how_ to look.

The door whined as it opened, a thin, high pitched sound. There were no closets, no open corridors—not even an open window to escape through. The clod of footsteps moved closer, quickened by the sight of their prey curled nearly under the bed. As they closed in, Sherlock gave a small cry—a small, strangled sound, one he knew would reach no friendly ear. Though he had been versed in what to do in such situations, his heart still pounded in his throat at the sight of the Glock.

"Nice and easy, lad," the calm voice purred. Sherlock could almost _feel _the smile from which it came. "Don't make trouble, if you value your skin." The hands that grabbed him were rough, putting an end to his attempt to crawl under the bedframe and flee.

"Yeah, brat," the aging housemaster wheezed, his liquored breath nearly gagging his captive. "God knows _you'd_ have it comin', if'n you _did_..."

"Enough of that," the mastermind of the pair snapped. "There's more than money at stake." A well-defined arm snaked around Sherlock's neck, tightening like a vice as he struggled to escape. The cold bite of metal connecting with his spine stilled him instantly.

The terrified little boy _(and that was an accurate description, given the circumstances)_ moved stiffly past his bed and into the corridor, trying in vain to leave clear evidence of what was happening to him as he was pushed down the stairs and into the black courtyard. Once he was inside his abductors' van _(had to be a van; he could sit upright instead of shoved to the floor) _Sherlock was bound, blinded and left only with his thoughts as his first prison sped away into the night.

* * *

**Notes:**

This piece came from a thought I found on TV Tropes (a great site for trivia fans!): the idea that Sherlock was able to walk through the scenes in the missing children's dormitory (particularly the boy) fairly quickly because _he himself_ had been in a similar situation. Coupled with the horrible display with the housemistress, and I thought, "There might be a story in that..."

The title comes from Stone Sour's "Through Glass," which carries the lines "when you're outside looking in, describing what you see/remember what you're staring at is me/'cause I'm looking at you through the glass, don't know how much time has passed..." I own neither this nor anything from _Sherlock_ that you recognize.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notice for this and further chapters: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Thank you.**

* * *

Once the van stopped moving, Sherlock felt the pressure of cold metal pressing on his head. The dark, thin pillowcase that heavily blurred his vision did nothing to alleviate the chill. He could hear the sound of feet grinding through gravel, and a distinct lack of ambient noise told the boy volumes.

"Scream all you like, lad," the calm voice of the mastermind (as Sherlock called him, names evaded him and he needed to differentiate) said. "No one within a dozen miles to hear you if you did."

_It could be lies,_ Sherlock thought. _It's a skill this man's been able to hone, years of practice, judging by the tone of voice. _The lack of normal sounds, however—traffic, chatter from passersby, even of insects and birds—made it impossible for him to be sure.

The doors wrenched open, and the slight frame of an already taller-than-normal twelve year-old was roughly yanked from the rusted floor of his first prison into his second. Sherlock kept absolutely silent, trying in vain to obtain as many clues as he could about his surroundings. It _felt_ as though he were being carried through a large enclosed space. Listening to the soft grunts and mumbles of his captors gave him a base to judge the distance of an echo, and the sounds never quite seemed to reach a surface to echo from. Very large, then, and spacious.

"Step, lad," another voice said, this one new, and young from its inflection. No less than three pairs of hands shoved him forward, and Sherlock could just barely make out the dark outline of a steep staircase in front of him. Tentatively, he took a small step, his toes coming flush with the top of the stair.

"Faster," the Mastermind urged, shoving his weapon deeper into the back of the boy's head. Sherlock wanted badly to tell this man off, to stand stubbornly at the foot of this perilous ladder until he was left alone, but self-preservation kicked in. Despite what he might think of his abductors, they still held him effectively powerless.

After a few arduous minutes, the last step was reached. A thick door, groaning painfully by its hinges, swung open, and Sherlock barely had time to acclimate to his surroundings before being shoved inside. Given his lack of sight and the position of his arms (_which were now growing numb, fastened as they were behind his back_), it surprised no one when they boy fell half-sprawled into the close room.

"Pick 'im up," the housemaster, whom Sherlock knew as Horace, wheezed. "You set it up what I told you?"

Sherlock strained to listen as he struggled against the actions of his captors. His arms were released only to have his wrists shackled individually to something solid _(steel, possibly iron, given the lingering scent of_ _what seems a small__ space)_ His hooded head was held fast against a set of bars, and he started to protest as something solid circled the front of his throat and a decisive _click_ rang behind his ears. Pulling his head forward, he felt the caress of softly rolled steel rubbing against his Adam's apple, allowing him only to move a couple of inches in any direction. The concrete floor below him was coarse and grainy, the imperfections of the material biting though his thin pajamas.

"Overkill, don't you think?" The sound of the young man's voice, while cold, was music to Sherlock's ears. "He _is_ just a boy…"

"Slippery brat, more like," Horace groused. "Thanks be to God he's not _my_ charge now!" Three heavy footsteps sang out before the sole of a well-worn shoe turned against the concrete. "Mark me, give him even one _scrap_ of an inch and he'll hang us all!"

"Horace has a point," the Mastermind said coolly. "I've done my homework as well. These Holmeses are particularly clever…how else do you think they've done so well for themselves all this time?"

Sherlock let out a breath. _This is _exactly_ what it looks like, then. _Air hitched in his throat, going down his windpipe, and he began to cough violently. Instinctively, he tried to lift his arms above him to set himself to rights, but his arms could only lift about halfway up his torso before they sang out against a crossbar in the ironwork he was crudely attached to.

"If'n it were up to me, I'd fleece them for the money, then leave the brat to starve. Wouldn't take long, given how he never eats much anyway…"

"Yes, Horace. We'll take that under advisement." A hand snaked between Sherlock's back and the ironwork, and forcefully struck him in an attempt to quiet the cough. "Over there…that bottle…"

Seconds later, the boy caught a glimpse of a well-kept, youthful hand as the pillowcase rose slightly to allow him a drink. He squinted through the tight weave of the cloth, but was afforded only the knowledge that light came in through the door and mere outlines of his assailants. As he caught his breath, the young voice asked, "Better?"

Sherlock could only nod. The hood lowered, and he could see nothing but faint light and dark cloth once more.

"Come, Horace," the Mastermind said. "Your part is finished."

"And the money you promised?"

"Is awaiting you downstairs. As I said before, this action is not, for the rest of us, totally about money." Two pairs of footsteps made their way towards the door before stopping. "Make sure our…_guest_ is made somewhat comfortable. He may be with us a while."

Sherlock noticed the dark shape that he took to be the youngest of his captors moving off to the side of him as the sounds of rubber soles clashed against the steep stairs. Just as a soft cushion was awkwardly arranged underneath him, the boy heard the sharp report of a gunshot, followed closely by another. The deafening sound rang against the metal walls of the rooms that confined him, and Sherlock could feel his eyes growing wider as he gave an involuntary cry of fright.

"Means to an end, boy," the young man said in response, once the ringing stopped. "Became a liability—not one we could afford. He was right about one thing, though."

"Wh-what's that?" Sherlock inwardly cringed at the sound of his own voice, so low and pitiable that he loathed it with contempt. He was determined not to let these people know how petrified he really was, and his own voice was betraying him.

"Give a man an inch, he'll take an ell," his captor replied. "Give an _intelligent_ man an inch, and he'll _destroy _you."

The room fell silent, and Sherlock could feel its weight engulfing him. "I hope, for _your_ sake, you're not as intelligent as you let on," the young man said casually as he left Sherlock's cell. The sounds of five locks being set and the pitch darkness hid the tears that began to fall from the boy's cheeks and the soft sobs he tried desperately to keep to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock didn't know how much time had passed as he fought to compose himself. He _did_ know that, while cathartic, the vulgar display of emotion he fell victim to would do nothing to solve the problem at hand or ease his situation. Pulling on his restraints experimentally, he found that he had about five inches of play before the ironwork crossbar halted his upward progress. As for the steel bolt circling his neck, he could move outward only about two inches in any direction, but could pick himself straight upward enough to shift his legs underneath him. Sherlock's backside, bony as it was, wasn't acclimating well to its forced position, despite the cushion provided earlier.

Stale air greeted a gasping pair of lungs. There was no circulation inside his cell, Sherlock was certain of that. The sheer number of locks on the door told him that though they might see him as a boy, they took their departed conspirator's words to heart. It really _did_ seem like overkill—to use his young captor's words—to keep him so closely guarded in such a fashion.

Then, unbidden, Sherlock heard a voice chiding him in his mind: _"_Think,_ Sherlock. Why would these men go to such lengths to begin with?"_

That was easy. Sherlock had figured that one out as soon as he had arrived.

_"Very good," _the voice said, in that smug tone Sherlock hated. _"But what if there's _another_ reason for the…_extreme_ security measures?"_

The twelve year-old had to think about that a while. His captors had said they had "done their homework," meaning that they knew something—possibly quite a bit—about Sherlock, and by extent his family. What other reason could they have besides that?

With great effort, Sherlock shifted his legs so they tucked slightly underneath him. He let out a heaving sigh of relief, made harder by the cloth that was now clinging to his angular features. The heat of his own breath warmed him, and from that the boy could deduce that it was likely still night outside. How long had he been a prisoner?

The lack of light was beginning to unsettle him. Sherlock was acquainted with the night—the best time to experiment undisturbed, or to simply _think_ without interruption—but there was always _some_ form of light within reach. Even a glimpse of the bright full moon would be appreciated, rather than the forgotten dungeon-like quality of his small cell.

_"Focus, dear brother,"_ the chiding voice in his mind admonished. _"Why such precaution, for a mere twelve year-old boy? It's not as though you could _fight_ your way out of this…predicament…"_

Sherlock fought to remember the sounds of the locks as they were thrown. There had been at least two different deadbolts, one standard door lock, a chain lock and what had been certainly a padlock setup. If the locks had all been similar, it might have been a useful exercise in figuring out how to pick or disable each one. With so many different ones, some requiring both physical keys as well as the ability to reach through iron walls, it made escape next to impossible.

And then…there were his restraints. If the door was so well-protected, preventing his escape from this close space, what was the need for him to be restrained as he was?

_Unless…_

Sherlock's head spun violently towards his cell's only exit as the sounds of the locks being disabled graced his ears. Though startled, he fought to keep his breathing even as footsteps drew near him.

"Hope you're hungry, lad," the young voice said. Both this voice as well as the Mastermind's had a slight accent to them, but all Sherlock could tell from them was that they weren't English by any means. Or French, for that matter. It almost sounded American, but dismissed that thought as well—given the dozens of regional dialects of that nation, many of them easy to pick out given a few seconds, these two men's speech patterns seemed to match none of them.

The scent of soup wafted towards Sherlock, and though he wanted to refuse, his stomach did the talking for him. It didn't help that he really hadn't eaten since the end of term dinner going on three days ago, and that even then he'd picked through the food. He heard the young man set something porcelain down onto the concrete, and then stood next to where Sherlock unwillingly sat. "Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"You want to eat, yes?"

A thick tomato smell graced Sherlock's nostrils. His stomach roared. Ashamed, he nodded slightly.

"Then close your eyes. I'd hate to have to ransom a dead body, but…there are worse things…"

Sherlock held his breath, waiting for the pressure of metal to invade his person or a sharp blade to make itself known. He shivered involuntarily, and his shame grew deeper as his breaths quickened. He closed his eyes, ashamed at not putting up much of a fight.

_"There is no shame in self-preservation, Sherlock,"_ the voice at the back of the boy's head said gently. _"What good is honor or nobility if one is not able to enjoy or defend them?"_

"Eyes closed, lad?" The young voice (Sherlock dubbed him Zeck, after the literary Wolfe's arch-nemesis) held a note of warning to it. The boy nodded, fighting once again to keep tears at bay.

Zeck carefully pulled the wretched hood off of Sherlock's head, then tied a thick cloth around his closed eyes. "Can't be too sure, you see," he offered by way of explanation. "I'd really rather not have to kill you if it's not necessary." A spoon then pressed against Sherlock's mouth, and he obediently opened it, taking in the stew-like soup. Several minutes later, the porcelain container once again sat on the concrete, the blindfold was removed, and the despised hood replaced.

"May I…" Sherlock began, hesitating.

"Yes?"

The boy heaved a deep breath. "May I have some water? It's just…it's so dry in here…"

It was hard to find the mirth in the chuckle that filled the room. "Alright then," Zeck replied. "Lucky for you I have some on me. Otherwise I'd have to ask for a bottle, and my compatriot might not be so generous at this point."

Sherlock glimpsed quickly as the hood lifted just enough to admit the small water bottle. He could see nothing but concrete and worn leather shoes. The shoes were a strange make, but not one he could readily place. Once finished, he asked, "Why…why not?"

"It's hard to demand a ransom when no one is willing to take the call."

The boy's heart dropped. He knew that his family was not what anyone would consider particularly _close,_ but there were appearances to make. Mother, certainly, would reply if she were able…

_"A bit hard to do, brother dear, when the throes of civil war hinder communication," _the nagging voice in back of Sherlock's head supplied.

"My brother," he whispered, trying to take in the gravity of his situation. "He's…he's working somewhere in government—don't ask where, I couldn't tell you—but surely _he_ would suffice to contact?"

Silence loomed for a long moment. "We'll see," Zeck replied, thoroughly bolting the door as he descended the stairs, leaving his quarry in the dark once more.


	4. Chapter 4

The ache of numbness started to settle into Sherlock's limbs. He knew that his range of motion, extremely limited though it may be, was not nearly enough to induce circulation into chilled limbs starving for blood. His legs and backside were the worst problem—even though he had managed to shift the position of his mid-to lower extremities, it was still becoming torture to even sit on the cushion provided.

Stale air graced Sherlock's lungs. Time was slippery in this isolated space; however, the boy judged by the growing bit of warmth inside his cell that the sun was rising, though its radiance was not enough to heat the room completely. Wherever he was, it invited the cold.

Closing his eyes, he thought back to the drive his captors had taken to get him here. Even with his innate sense to direction, he had gotten lost on the thirty-ninth or fortieth turn. The road sounds had changed from pavement to gravel to rutted earth and back again. There were dozens of small, out of the way hamlets and rural villages that might easily fit those road conditions; Sherlock concluded that guessing would be equivalent to any logical deduction he could make on that point.

It was that moment that he longed to _see_ something—_anything_, just to remind himself that he still had that particular capability. Much of his time had been spent in the school laboratory researching and cataloguing various types of items and subtle differences in each one. Even on his few-and-far-between visits home, the time would mainly be spent immersed in some volume from Father's library or in a contested game of deductive reasoning with Mycroft, always based on something they _saw._ Privately, it irked the younger Holmes to no end that his insufferable brother usually was able to get more information than he could out of the glimpse of a person or object allowed, and he had been working to remedy the situation threefold.

His arse was _really_ starting to hurt. Sherlock could swear he could _feel_ the prickly concrete grains driving through the cushion he sat on. The clinking of iron meeting steel sang though his ears as he tried to stretch out his sore arms, and an attempt to work the creaks out of his neck reminded him why they were there in the first place.

Sherlock strained to hear anything—footsteps, a shout, even the call of a bird or the buzz of an annoying mosquito. Nothing beckoned. He fought the urge to close his eyes and rest—the rest would not be sufficient, and there was the problem of his _life being at stake_—but the going-on-probably-four-days of no sleep was catching up with him. Unwillingly, his head drooped onto his chest. His eyes closed, and soon the boy was fast asleep.

* * *

Pain was the first thing Sherlock knew as he was roused from his sleep. His cheeks burned, stinging from the force of the vicious slaps they had received. "Where are they, brat?!" a voice growled, nearly oozing into his young captive's ear.

"Who?"

A dark chuckle filled the small space. "No one seems to want you, lad," Zeck chimed in. "Can't be bothered to take a message."

Sherlock's mind raced. "You've tried my brother?"

"And what good will _that _do? I sincerely doubt…"

The twelve year-old heaved a sigh, immensely grateful he'd managed to pay attention to the one family conversation that mattered. "You've done your homework…you said so yourself."

A hand grasped Sherlock's throat. "The point, brat? And make it quick."

"Any…anyone who has _done their homework_ concerning me would realize that my parents _can't _be reached. A hard thing to do, given the state of civil war where they are."

The grasp on his throat weakened. "Then what becomes of you, then? Clever your way out of that!"

It was hard to swallow—the lack of moisture, coupled with the bruise across Sherlock's windpipe. The thought of being _murdered_, of being let in this place to starve, or die of thirst, or… A sudden, sharp chill escaped, racing up his spine.

"The brother," Zeck said, a note of realization dawning.

Sherlock nodded.

"And how is _that_ going to work?" the Mastermind snapped. "You mentioned government service, but still…a twenty-two year old couldn't possibly gather what we require."

Again, Sherlock blessed his fleeting attention span focusing on the one salient point that mattered. "My brother has access to all the accounts," Sherlock said. "Should anything happen, of course."

Silence reigned for a long moment. "I'll try it," the Mastermind said, though Sherlock was beginning to wonder who _really_ was in charge at this juncture. The sound of footsteps carrying the man from the room was music to Sherlock's ears.

"Better hope your brother loves you," Zeck said casually.

The boy cleared his throat. "How much?"

"Your brother loves you? Depends on him, I think."

"No," Sherlock nearly choked out. "How much for my life?"

"It's negotiable. To a point. My compatriot would like nine figures; I'd settle for a decent eight."

Sherlock's head swam. He knew his family was Old Money—it was obvious to anyone who spent five seconds with them. He did not, however, know just what that meant, other than he never really had to worry about money himself.

"But then," Zeck continued, "I've got other reasons as to why you're valuable. And as long as I get them, I'm satisfied."

Now the boy's head really started to reel. The possibilities Zeck alluded to were nearly endless. Just as he heard the scrape of leather sole on gritted concrete, Sherlock called out, "Please, may I…"

The leather soles stopped.

"…may I…?" Sherlock plainly knew that it was a perfectly natural function that needed to be performed, but he still had just enough social graces to be delicate about them, especially in this sort of situation. Though his body ached more than his bladder, Sherlock also knew that a trip to the loo would not go amiss-he could work out his aches and pains with the walk, take care of other matters and possibly gain more information about the structure that housed his cold, close cell.

The shoes scraped past him into a far corner of the close room, and the sound of metal clanked down next to him. The cushion was removed from underneath him, and a cold object pressed near his hip. "Pick up," Zeck said.

"I…I can't, not that far…not shackled up like this..."

"Pick up, or else I leave you a mess. I know how far you can move up."

Gritting his teeth, certain his covered face was now scarlet with shame, Sherlock painfully and awkwardly picked himself up, the steel bolt collaring his neck straining against a second crossbar in the ironwork he was chained to. Deft hands removed his pajama pants and shorts, and the chill of freezing metal pervaded the back of his thighs as he relieved himself. Once finished, the metal object was removed, his thin clothing set to rights, and the cushion replaced.

"Anything else?"

Still recovering from the humiliation of the last few seconds, Sherlock remained silent.

"Very well. Sit tight, then." Zeck chuckled a little at his own joke. The door closed, the locks were thrown, and Sherlock sat in his dark prison, bones and muscles aching once more.


	5. Chapter 5

**I apologize if this chapter is a bit harder to follow. Conversation not in italics or quotes means Sherlock's thinking it, but not speaking it aloud.**

* * *

Sherlock's legs were dead. The numbness was nothing like that which victims of paralysis described in the many medical texts the boy had managed to peruse; rather, it was a stinging of pins and needles, thousands of them, which never quite seemed to end. He wondered to himself why his captors had taken the time to place a cushion underneath his backside. Given the pressure of sitting upon it for what now had to be hours on end, it was becoming highly sensitive as well as incredibly sore. It was as though Sherlock could count each grain of sand embedded in the patch of concrete below him.

His arms ached, a dull ache that came with lack of movement. Sherlock was used to extremes—either sitting in contemplation or at his microscope for hours on end, or racing from one end of the earth to the next in search of an answer. Even during his "quieter" moments, he could get up, walk about a bit, stretch out tired and aching muscles before resuming his train of thought. Shackled as he was, he could do none of these things. The idea that he was being _forced_ into sitting still grated him no end.

_Come now, Sherlock,_ that little voice mocked inside the boy's mind. _You still haven't answered the question—why would these people go to such extremes to subdue a mere _boy_? _The unheard chuckle and memory of a smug smile that usually accompanied the voice made the younger Holmes grit his teeth. _Or perhaps, you haven't figured it out yet…_

Sherlock shook his head sharply, as though to quiet his thoughts. Despite his gangly size, there was nothing unusual about himself that would warrant such precaution. He was aware that he weighed roughly five and a half stone, less than the physicians preferred but comfortable for him. He couldn't take on a larger physical threat by force in part because of his volume, but his long legs could sprint for a distance should the occasion call for it.

Tired arms sank into the handcuffs that bound him to the solid ironwork acting as a backrest. The individual vertical bars making up the grating pressed firmly into Sherlock's back, creating an even more uncomfortable position. He knew he could not sit perfectly straight for any length, given the pressure underneath him.

_Perhaps that's the point,_ the voice chided. _Perhaps it's about making things as torturous as possible without laying a finger…_

Sherlock thought about that. Aside from his initial kidnap and being forced and bound inside his cell, his captors were surprisingly hands-off. The stinging in his cheeks and bruised throat notwithstanding, he really hadn't been touched more than necessary. Someone knows what they're doing, then, he thought. This isn't the first time…

_Very good, _his mind replied in that smug tone. _Again, Sherlock—why chain you up like this, if you are no real threat to your captors?_

I could escape, Sherlock silently retorted back, feeling both rather stupid for essentially conducting an argument by himself and incensed that, even in captive isolation, Mycroft _still_ knew how to elicit a response from him. Given enough time, I could manage…

_Yes. Down a rickety set of stairs, through God knows how much building to find an exit, and then into…what, exactly? Gather your surroundings, brother dear. What can you tell from them?_

Iron, Sherlock began. Iron works—likely a factory. Deserted, given the lack of sounds. I was told there was no one to hear me scream for miles, so isolated as well as deserted. Britain was the pioneer of the Industrial Revolution, meaning lots of factories—no, I don't know _precisely _how many, but a lot—and a good estimate is about a third of them currently lay disused.

_Fair point. What sounds did you encounter on the way to this place?_

Normal road sounds. Gravel, rutted earth. A combination of all three, and not in that precise order. Means not near a large city, where roads would mostly be paved. Likely a hamlet or rural village of some sort, near an old abandoned factory.

_What else?_

Sherlock shook his head, still disbelieving the absurd conversation he was conducting. What do you mean, what else? he thought. There's gravel inside the factory…or, at least, something that sounds like gravel when stepped on…

_You touched upon an answer earlier. An iron works._

Iron shavings. Of course.

_Sounds?_

Nothing.

_Nothing? _Sherlock could see his brother's face smirking at him, and even in his mind he wanted to punch him for it. _There's nothing that can be discerned through sound?_

No, Mycroft, nothing. There are no insects buzzing. There are no birds calling. There are no signs of electricity—no hums or that faint snowy static-like sound you can hear if you're looking for it, which I _have_ been, by the way.

_What about the wind?_

Sherlock paused. Straining, he heard—very faintly—the sound of wind blowing up just against the far wall of his cell.

Yes, there's wind. Not much, or else the cell I'm being kept in is well insulated. Likely both, as I can tell when the sun is out when a small bit of heat washes into the room. The room itself is cold, though, and given we are in the summer months I would gather that my location might well be quite a bit north from the school.

_There, you see?_

The twelve year-old tried to smother a grim chuckle.

That's kind of the point, Mycroft. I _can't_ see. Even though I know the sun is out, I can't _see_ it. I can't see my feet in front of me. Everything I know about this place, I've had to discern using senses _other_ than my sight. That, and they've put this damned pillowcase around my head, making it darker than I think it would be normally…

_No windows, then._

None. I understand the hood on my head—to avoid identification should things go well for me—and they _will,_ right Mycroft?

_In time. Patience._

_You_ be patient, sitting like this! Sherlock wanted to scream.

_It is a virtue you have yet to understand, Sherlock. Perhaps now is the time…_

The sound of the door opening startled Sherlock out of his one-sided conversation. He felt the hood lift just to his mouth. "Drink," Zeck said. The door had been closed partially, giving Sherlock only a sliver of light to work with.

_Ask him,_ Mycroft's voice chided in his head.

After finishing the drink, Sherlock cleared his throat. It still smarted from the abuse earlier. "Were…were you successful?"

"Your brother picked up the phone, if that's what you mean. You didn't mention he was working at Whitehall."

Whitehall? The look of confusion would have been evident on the boy's face, if it had been uncovered enough to see.

"We know the tricks, though. Seems cooperative, but he'll have to hurry."

Those last words spurred Sherlock into action. "Why am I chained up like this?" he demanded, surprised at the tone of his voice. "I can't overpower you, obviously…"

Something pressed right between Sherlock's eyes, and he stilled instantly. "Payback, of a kind," Zeck said coldly. "Plus it keeps a clever lad like yourself right where he's supposed to be."

"I…I can't feel my legs," Sherlock murmured. "My arse is on fire from sitting so long. My arms are one constant ache, and I could _peel_ the bars out of my back that they've been supporting. Please, I need to move around…"

"So you can plot an escape? Not hardly, boy. Not that anyone would find you, out here, but…"

"But?"

Zeck remained silent.

"Please," Sherlock begged. "I…I know my brother, and…"

"And?"

Sherlock swallowed hard. "He won't pay for damaged goods."

A long silence reigned. Then the door closed once more.


	6. Chapter 6

The sound of metal clashing with iron soared through Sherlock's ears. He cursed his captors silently for only giving him enough range of motion to admit he _had _one at all. He berated himself for not being able to convince Zeck that his need to move was both real and desperate. The one hope the boy clung to was that his warning about Mycroft not paying for a broken Sherlock—one the younger Holmes wanted to ardently to believe was true—was taken to heart.

Mycroft, if ever you were a tight-fisted narcissistic perfectionist concerning finances, this would be the time, his helpless brother thought. Sherlock recalled seeing his brother, at the age of sixteen, arguing over a restaurant bill because his entrée had been undercooked. Though eaten, Mycroft had demanded—and gotten-a discount for his trouble.

Surely, Sherlock hoped, the welfare of his abducted little brother would merit the same response?

The faint heat provided by the sun was starting to vanish, and a deeper chill sank into the small room. Sherlock wished his captors had thought to bring his dressing gown with them. He thought longingly of the plush fabric, a shade of navy blue he preferred, wrapped around his thinly-clad frame. His teeth began to chatter slightly, and he pulled in vain at the shackles around his wrists. He hoped that, by some stroke of luck, he might be able to wrest them free and wrap his arms around himself to retain what little heat he could.

Sherlock's ears caught the sounds of the locks being thrown, and the faint light outside his cell streamed in. Footsteps hastened towards him, and he cast his eyes in the direction of the sound.

Without warning, rough hands grabbed Sherlock's head, wrenching it forward. The hated hood was lifted slightly, but there was no time to take in the fraction of concrete he could manage to see below him—a dark cloth was mashed against his mouth, bitter and vile-smelling. As Sherlock fought to breathe against the impediment, he realized too late that the bitter taste was…was…

* * *

Sherlock woke with a start. He coughed painfully, the sounds emanating from his lungs not unlike those of a three-pack-a-day smoker. His head swam, and it took several minutes for him to realize he was lying flat on his stomach. A metallic _clang_ rang out, reverberating off what the boy judged to be twenty-foot-high walls. The sound of chains followed, and Sherlock realized that it was harder to swallow.

"Finally," he heard a voice say, although it was muzzy to the younger Holmes' ears. "Thought you might not wake up. Wouldn't bode well for any of us, now would it?"

Disoriented as he was, Sherlock fought to stand. It was then he realized that his legs and arms were free, though he still couldn't see. Clawing at his face, he felt the cloth of the ever-present hood still clinging tightly to his face, and try as he might, he could not remove it. Something was preventing it from moving.

"I wouldn't, lad," Zeck chided from somewhere above where Sherlock stood. "Mark me, I can still dispatch you if I feel a need. My compatriot too. We'll take our chances with the money."

The thought hit Sherlock like a stone. Letting his fingers explore a bit more, he learned where the metallic sounds were coming from—a long length of chain that appeared to be bolted to the metal floor of this new space. The other end, Sherlock realized in horror, was attached to a wide metal collar anchored firmly onto his neck, which was also the reason his hood would not budge. "A bit barbaric, isn't it?" he managed, too stunned to think of something more eloquent.

"_You_ were the one who said he needed to move," Zeck called back. The floating voice irritated Sherlock to no end—it was as though he were on display in a zoo or some form of sick laboratory. "And again, it keeps you right where you're supposed to be."

"I've already been informed that escape is impractical, if not unlikely."

"Give a man in chains the opportunity, no matter how small, no matter how impossible the chances, and he _will_ take it. _Every time._"

"Is that from experience?" the boy inquired.

"If talk was what you wanted, we didn't have to move you. Now, are you going to walk around or not?"

Fighting the effects of the drug inside him, Sherlock began to walk. His steps were slow and painful at first, given the length of time he had been forced to sit nearly motionless. He found he only had about eight feet of chain between him and the floor, making his walk a circular one. Sherlock could _feel_ the immense size of the room he was in—likely a factory floor, now devoid of its machines and workers. A gust of cold air leaked in from a point near the bit of light he could see, and Sherlock surmised that there was a broken window in one of the walls—his sense of direction was severely hampered by the despised hood over his eyes and the drugs still fighting to escape him.

The sound of his footsteps echoing off the metal walls gave Sherlock a strange feeling of loneliness. True, he _was_ lonely in this place—wanting to live through a situation where his death would be welcomed, if Zeck and the late Horace were anything to go by—but in this massive space he also felt _tiny_, a feeling he'd never experienced before. Was _this_ what it felt like, to be completely at someone's mercy? Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, but not only because he wanted to stave off the chill.

He walked for a while, working out the jumble of thoughts inside his head. Sherlock was so consumed in his own mind that he failed to notice a second set of footsteps until another hand grabbed him, shoving the vile scent of drug against his mouth and nose. Though the boy struggled viciously and tried to cry out, it was in vain, and he blacked out once more.

* * *

When Sherlock awoke he felt three things: a pounding headache, an overwhelming urge to vomit and the strain of his many shackles inside his cell, including the rolled steel bolt keeping his head in place. Underneath him, the twelve year-old could just make out a firmer, larger cushion that would allow him to sit cross-legged if he so chose. He began to cough and sputter violently, and his hood was lifted to admit a bucket near his lips.

"Let it out, lad," Zeck said. Sherlock obliged, bringing up the remains of the soup he had had…yesterday? Early that morning? There was little left before it became grainy remains of bile.

The bucket was removed, and a cup pressed to Sherlock's lips. "Drink, but don't swallow," his captor cautioned. "Rinse your mouth."

Sherlock did as he was told, heaving the remains into the aforementioned bucket. It was so dark in his cell he couldn't tell what color the object was, even with the door open and the faint moonlight shining through it.

Once the bucket was removed again, Sherlock felt something else press against his lips—a chunk of bread, as though torn from a loaf rather than sliced. "Eat this," Zeck ordered. "Settle your stomach."

The young Holmes turned his head. Food was the last thing on his mind.

The substance pressed against him, more firmly this time. "Eat, or so help me, boy, I _will_ shove it down your throat."

"I'd like to see you try."

Zeck walked to the door, gave a shout in a language Sherlock had not heard before, and soon rough hands were prying his mouth open while Zeck shoved pieces of bread into them. His jaw was forced up and down in an attempt to chew them, and a hand snaked around the steel bolt restraint to massage Sherlock's neck, forcing the food down into his esophagus. Sherlock tried to fight-attempting to deny his captors access, working his gag reflex in overtime to avoid swallowing, thrashing about as much as he could, given his complex restraints—but to no avail. Soon he was released from the Mastermind's grip, suffering shouted abuse as the man stormed out of Sherlock's cell.

Coughing to get his breath, Sherlock asked, "Why? Why did you…?"

"Like I said before—I can ransom a dead body, but I don't want to if I can avoid it. Don't take that for sentiment, lad; it makes no difference to me whether or not you die here. I'd rather keep my merchandise in good condition, but it doesn't mean I have to."

Sherlock laid his head back against the ironwork that trapped him. He was grateful for the new cushion underneath him, as he couldn't feel the concrete underneath him anymore. "Thank you," he said begrudgingly. "Waving his bound hand toward the soft object, he continued, "For this."

"Good condition, lad. Nothing more." The door slammed shut, and there was darkness once more.


	7. Chapter 7

His aches were less. The exercise had done his abused body a world of good. Coupled with the firmer cushion he was perched upon, it was as if a wish Sherlock hadn't remembered making had been granted.

_Don't read too much into it, brother dear,_ the little voice in back of his head cautioned. _Remember what he said—there is no real incentive to keep you breathing…_

Then why am I? Why bother to make me… Sherlock thought on that a minute. …more comfortable, if the idea is to simply kill me?

_Moving you, even within the confines of the main structure holding you, takes effort. You never did answer that question, did you?_

Zeck alluded to it. They know about us.

_Do they? _ The sight of the grin was more than Sherlock could take, even though it existed only in the confines of his mind. _They seemed surprised about my employer…perhaps they've merely gleaned a bit of information by doing basic research? It's not a stretch that you were a victim of chance…_

No. Sherlock shook his head, the cloth that shrouded it rustling as he did so. There was mention of payback—something happened, either to Zeck or the Mastermind. They are clearly well versed in how to deal with prisoners…either _they_ were prisoners at one time, or I am not their first.

_Perhaps._

The boy's mind raced backward, trying to remember each bit of conversation that had taken place since his abduction.

Zeck was the one who mentioned wanting payback, Sherlock recalled. The Mastermind mentioned that, and I quote, _'this operation is not entirely about money.'_

_Good start._

They've given me nothing to go on. Aside from the scant bit I can deduce from the bits of conversation and my immediate surroundings, I could be in England or Wales or Northern Ireland, for all I know. I wasn't drugged on my way to this place, so that lets out air or sea transport, and there's only so much land available in the British Isles…

_Better. That mind of yours might just get you out of this._

Sherlock thought about that a moment.

Perhaps not. Zeck seems to know about our family's…_gifts,_ if you will. He's alluded more than once to the thought that my being clever might be the end of me rather than my salvation.

_And yet, here you are. Alive, one piece, and with slightly better accommodations to wit. That mind of yours must be doing something right…_

Or perhaps they're just messing with my mind altogether. I think it's just been two days, Mycroft. Tell me you're making arrangements to end this.

_Patience._

The door opened again, and the sound of Zeck's shoes graced his ears. "Water?"

Sherlock's throat, painfully dry from the bread and the force-feeding earlier, nodded vigorously. He took the proffered drink gratefully, and when the bottle was drained, asked for another.

"You really want the pan so soon?"

The boy remembered his humiliation the first time that particular need had been addressed. Still…

"Please. It's so dry in here. There's no air…"

"You're breathing, aren't you?"

"No _fresh _air, at least."

Silence fell, then Sherlock heard his guard grab something out of a bag. Another bottle was brought to his lips. "Drink slow," Zeck warned. "Last one you're getting for a while."

Once Sherlock had drank his fill, he turned his head slightly away. "Thank you," he said, remembering that he was at this man's mercy.

"I'll be up in a little bit," Zeck promised. "Be ready." The door shut, and Sherlock sank back against the ironwork behind him. The absence of sounds was beginning to wear at him, but he contented himself with having a fair approximation of his whereabouts—limited as that description was.

* * *

As promised, Zeck returned some while later. "Pick up," he said, pressing the cold pan once again into his captive's hip. This time, Sherlock picked up his frame as much as possible, and the process went without incident.

"Your brother drives a hard bargain," the young man said as he moved the pan away from the boy. "My compatriot thinks we should cut our losses."

A cold chill enveloped Sherlock's whole body, and the shiver it gave off was evident. "A-and you?" he asked.

"Like I said before, doesn't matter to me one way or the other. I care about getting payback, and I can have that whether you live or die. The question is, what do _you_ make of it?"

A sharp breath entered Sherlock's lungs. "What kind of…_bargain_…did my brother propose?"

The chuckle that came from his captor wasn't hopeful. "He suggested a sum far below what my compatriot was willing to take. Seemed to imply that it was a reasonable counteroffer, seeing as we would not have it for long."

Brilliant, Mycroft, the little boy thought scathingly. Go ahead and wind up the people _literally _holding my life in their hands…

Aloud, Sherlock said, "I would think my thoughts on the subject are obvious."

"They are. Call it curiosity. It's interesting to see how people react to such a thing."

Now Sherlock was floored. While the idea that these people were, at most, more than amateurs at the game of kidnap-and-ransom seemed reasonable, it never occurred to him that he might be seen as little more than a social experiment. The thought enraged him, and it was taking a _supreme_ amount of effort to tamp down the anger. "Obviously, I…I want to live," he began. "The practical part of me would recommend taking the sum my brother offers, because no one knows as well as I how _extremely _frugal he is with his finances. Given that he is now also speaking not just for himself, but for our parents as well, he will take extra care in such matters."

"And you? Where do you fit in?"

For once, Sherlock did not have a ready answer. "I thought I knew," he finally admitted. "I'm…I'm not so sure anymore."

"Wow," Zeck said with a low whistle. "And I thought _I_ had it rough."

As the man turned to leave him, Sherlock piped up, "Please. I don't want to die."

The fact that he got his captor to pause a moment before locking him in felt like a huge victory for the twelve year-old he left behind.


	8. Chapter 8

The chill in the room had disappeared when Sherlock opened his eyes. Though the cloth still blinded him, the boy realized that he was now in the midst of his third day of captivity. His neck had a painful crick in it, and his shoulders threatened to lock up at their unused joints. There was no way of telling with any certainty how long he had been asleep, but he knew that he was in desperate need of the pan again.

Sherlock fought against the fog that shrouded his brain. _This_ was why he eschewed sleep—it made his senses dull and clouded his judgment, leaving him vulnerable. Shaking his head only whisked some of the stubborn film from his mind, and it made him just a bit dizzy. The pressure on his bladder did not subside, and finally Sherlock cried out.

The only reply was the sound of his own voice echoing badly off the metal walls. Once the reverberations ceased, the twelve year-old strained for any sign that his calls had been heard. Only silence greeted him.

For this first time since he'd heard the floorboard squeak in the dormitory hall, Sherlock allowed panic to take him. His heart raced, his breathing became quicker and shallower, and—though he knew that it was mere colloquialism at most—the boy _swore_ he could feel the icy grip of fear clinging at his stomach and throat. The odds of surviving long enough to be found, given what he knew of his near-silent prison, were exponentially slim at best.

_Focus, Sherlock,_ the little voice scolded. _There is no evidence that you have been abandoned._

The boy strained his ears as much as he dared. They were greeted with silence.

_Is there light, Sherlock?_

"No, there isn't!" the young Holmes cried aloud. "There isn't any…" His head turned, and he spotted a welcome sign. "Wait, yes, there is!" He chortled, a high-pitched sound of relief. He gazed through his shroud at the steady stream of light coming from a crack in the door, allowing both scant illumination of his cell as well as a supply of fresh air.

_You see? You won't suffocate. There's still time._

Sherlock's bladder, stretched to the point of breaking, gave up. His soaked garments drew in the chill from the room, causing the boy to shiver. The smell that assaulted his nose was enough to make him retch.

That's never happened before, Sherlock thought. That's never…

_I said you wouldn't suffocate, brother dear,_ the voice chided in his head. _I never said anything about starvation or lack of water._

An uncomfortable feeling washed over the twelve year-old…and suddenly, he wanted desperately to make contact with another living being. A person would be immensely preferable, but a bird or even that annoying mosquito would suffice.

_Patience, Sherlock. I am doing everything I can._

"Are you?" the boy said aloud, desperate to hear the sound of a voice. "Are you really coming, Mycroft, or have you decided to 'cut your losses' as well?"

_You know the answer to that._

Sitting on his soaked cushion, covered in soiled clothes, hands pinned on either side of him and bolted down like boat furniture, Sherlock wasn't so sure.

* * *

Night fell. Sherlock gazed longingly at the fading sunlight that crept through the cracked door, his arms screaming. His clothes had long since dried, and the cushion on which he was perched smelled a little less. His throat was parched, however, from his attempts to be discovered, and his mind kept falling back on the memory of waterfalls and snowstorms and even a few hours in the midst of the surf. Sherlock's stomach growled like a wild beast, and sharp pains shot through his torso when he thought of food.

They've left me here, Sherlock thought sadly. They've left me here to die and my sodding…_arse _of a brother has forsaken me too. His mind thought back to the tedium of classes, his unfinished experiments and the sound of his violin as he composed in the night. All of it was lost.

Then, suddenly, a sharp beam of light crossed the path of the door opening.

"Here!" Sherlock shouted, though the lack of moisture and his earlier efforts had tempered his volume. "I'm up here! Please, I'm trapped!" Now more motivated than ever, Sherlock tried to pick up his aching arms to pull his restraints against their fixing point. The sensation of pins and needles made the boy cry in pain each time he struck steel against iron, but he knew that this might be his one chance.

"He's up there!" a voice called out, one Sherlock had not heard before. It was definitely an English one. "Hey!" it called again after a moment. "Which door?"

Sherlock screamed with all his might. He pulled as hard as he could, and the racket was feeble but clear. Soon he felt a rush of air waft over him, and felt someone kneeling over him.

"Oh, bloody hell…hey, we need some bolt cutters up here! Third door!" A hand grabbed at the cloth that had clung to the boy's face for days, and in an instant Sherlock's eyes were registering shapes and outlines in the dim light. "Are you okay?" the man asked, stilling Sherlock's attempts to fight his restraints. "Easy, now, we've got you…"

"How?" The croak in his voice alarmed Sherlock. "How did you…?"

"Wasn't easy, lad." Sherlock winced at the diminutive. "Bugger tried absconding with the money, fool that he was. Someone had eyes on it the whole time. After that…"

"Here," another voice said, and Sherlock could make out an object being passed. Soon his wrists were free, and arms leaned in to pick him up.

"My neck," he whispered. The torch beam wavered, and a string of something Gaelic spewed forth. "It's too thick for these," the man said. He called down to his associate. "We're going to need a saw!"

"A…_what?_" Feet clambered up the metal stair, stopping only once they reached the opening to the boy's cell. "Oh, of all the…!"

"Barbaric is what, mate," the man said. "Make the call."

"Is there a key?" Sherlock asked.

The torch waved methodically across the room, stopping only to peer at the device holding the bolt in place. "Whoever it was, they broke something off in the lock, lad…"

"Sherlock, please."

"Okay. As I was saying, the scoundrels that put this wretched thing on shoved something in the lock when they left you here…likely to avoid someone coming to remove it later."

"C-can you get it off?" The gnawing fear inside Sherlock's stomach was growing worse.

"Saw, maybe, or a cutting torch. It'll hurt, though."

"Do it."

A voice shouted up. "They're bringing a cutter—don't want to risk the saw…"

"You're ready, Sherlock?"

Staring in the half light at the man's warm eyes, Sherlock hesitantly nodded. The door opened, and two more figures brought in both the tool and a wash of light.

"Okay…here we go…"


	9. Chapter 9

As soon as the first cut was made, Sherlock held his breath. The sparks of the torch cutter were flying onto his neck, and he bit his lip to avoid crying out. Given how close the bolt lock had been to his neck—just two inches away—Sherlock knew that any sudden movement or sound that could startle might result in him with an unintended but very nasty burn scar in a perilous spot. Once the second cut had been made, the hated collar fell to the concrete with a _clang,_ and thick hands gently lifted the boy from his perch.

"Breathe, Sherlock," the man said, and the twelve year-old obliged. He felt a clap on his shoulder, a gesture that was foreign to the boy. Sherlock took full advantage of the wash of bright light that had been set up in his cell, and he took in the sight of his rescuer. A round man, cursed with a wash of five o'clock shadow in silver, with blue eyes and a warm expression looked down at him. A chill slithered through him, growing as it left his person to wrap himself around his skinny frame. He shivered.

"Easy there," the man said, his kind face sending a bit of warmth through Sherlock. "Get you wrapped up—too cold to be out in next-to-nothing…"

"Th-thank you," the boy said, his voice nearly a whisper due to the stress of the previous few hours. "How did you find me?"

"Strangest thing," the man said. "Sitting at my desk when this bloke came in—though that's not quite the word, is it, being he had a defined air about him. Told me about you gone missing, and his lot were taking over my office; said they'd traced your abductors to these parts."

"And that would be…?"

"Near the Scots border. I could tell that bloke was a long way from home, at any rate."

Sherlock nodded as a thick blanket was wrapped around him. The man beckoned, and took a step towards the door of the close room. Awkwardly, the boy made to follow, but the lack of circulation in his limbs made him stumble like a newborn deer. "Whoa there, easy," the man said again, catching Sherlock just before he fell. "Like as not it'd be easier to carry you, what with those steps…"

"No. Please." Sherlock could feel the desperation radiating off his face. "I'd…I'd like to stand, if I could."

"Well, that's up to you, I suppose." There was an accent to this man, a muddle of both the London Cockney and a bit of the North.

"You're not from the North," Sherlock said aloud. "Not originally."

"Good ear. No, I was with the Met for a good while; decided I needed a change of scenery. Found a good man to replace me, so I took the transfer." As he gently guided Sherlock towards the stair, he added, "The name's Gregson. Not many would pick up on that."

"I…I tend to notice what others don't."

Sherlock could feel the smile on Gregson's face. "Explains that bloke, then. He could do the same thing, you know? As though he could take one look at you and tell you that your milk had gone off or the missus was stepping out or that it was going to rain in Limerick in a week. There's a similarity in you two, come to think of it…"

The steps were torture, given Sherlock's unsteady legs and the steep incline. He was grateful for Gregson's presence—he kept him at rights without being overpowering. Sherlock shuddered inwardly at the reaction he might have gotten from Mycroft; either cold and distant or annoyingly suffocating was his usual method. He liked this feeling of gently supported independence, and was loathe to see it vanish.

"I expect a trip to casualty is in order, yeah? Given those wrists and the rings around your neck, those might need looking into." Gentle, rough fingers brushed over Sherlock's wounds, and though the boy's first instinct was to shy away, he hesitantly allowed the intrusion. Gregson's hands were nothing like those that had inflicted his pains onto him—though both were rough and thick, the manner in which they explored was vastly different.

Perhaps there's something to be learned in the subtle, the young Holmes thought. Even more than in what you can physically _see._

As they walked through the abandoned factory, Sherlock gazed at that which he had long guessed at. Bits of iron shaving lay scattered in piles like a loose coating of large-grained sand. The solid walls of the structure, though rusting, kept out any unwanted noise or light. The boy looked up to see a ceiling nearly fifty feet above him, and he was satisfied that, had he been able to escape, he could have led himself back to this spot.

"Sherlock," a voice said as he was led past the threshold of the factory door. Soon the younger Holmes had to contain his startled surprise as he was enveloped by the long arms of his elder brother. Holmeses didn't _hug._ They weren't known for contact. Mycroft released him after a moment, and Sherlock saw his normally tightly composed brother struggling to maintain that façade. "Thank you," he said softly, looking up at Gregson.

"Was you that figured it out, wasn't it?" Gregson replied in kind. "Never seen that before—your lot following the money, then you figuring it out after seeing the bastard five minutes in a locked interrogation room. Have to tell me how that was done sometime."

A small half-smile played on Mycroft's lips. Sherlock knew that look. It was one he was treated to when Sherlock had displayed a particularly adept deduction of something. It was his usual mask mixed with a bit of genuine emotion, and for his brother, that was a rare thing. "Perhaps," was all Mycroft replied.

Something odd struck Sherlock, though, and it had to do with something Gregson said. "You only found one man?"

"Yeah. Only one. Built like me, down to the fingertips, but a mean look to him. Scarred, too. And smart. Explains why he had you bolted up like that-he could go as he pleased, not worry too much about you wandering off.

_…keeping a clever lad like yourself exactly where you're supposed to be…_

Sherlock froze. The realization hit like a stone weight. "There were two of them," he said.

That got everyone's attention. "Sherlock, you're certain?" Mycroft asked.

"There was a younger man, fair skin, hands in good condition. Those were all I could see," he said, cutting Mycroft off at the pass. "He spent more time on me—feeding me, giving me water. Claimed that he was doing so as a kindness, but not as a necessity. That man is the one you're after; he's the real mastermind behind all this."

"There was no evidence of any accomplice, Sherlock," Mycroft began. "At least, not that we could…"

"I would think I make a better witness, Mycroft, considering I spent a considerable part of the last few days at the man's mercy," the younger Holmes spat. "I was not drugged when I was shackled up in that miserable cell. There were two men, aided by the housemaster of my dormitory, now deceased."

"That much we can back up, Mr. Holmes," Gregson supplied. "Just got word from the lads that there was a body in another part of the site—it was lying on what looks like an old production floor. But that's not what bothered them."

"Then what did?"

"A great length of chain, with some sort of metal restraint on it. Lads say it was large enough to…"

"…put someone's neck in," Sherlock finished softly. "They did. It was mine."

The look on Mycroft's face could have single-handedly started the next Great War.

"It was the only time I was drugged," Sherlock explained, feeling his legs sinking underneath them. He was led to the back of an ambulance, and once seated on the bumper, he curled the thick blanket around him again. "They put me on the end of that…_chain_ to allow me a bit of exercise. With only two people there, it ensured I would not fight against them or attempt an escape. Zeck, particularly, seemed insistent that I was to be 'kept where I was supposed to be."

"Zeck? They gave a name?"

"No. No names were given. This was not their first endeavor as such, Mycroft. I gave them my own names to differentiate them." Sherlock glanced at Gregson, and could deduce that he was an Inspector of some kind. "Detective Inspector…"

Gregson nodded. "Good catch."

"…you're looking for a foreign national-likely Eastern or West Continental European, if their English and the accent is anything to go by—who is very adept at letting others think they are in charge. I called the man you have in custody 'the Mastermind,' but it's obvious I was badly mistaken on that point. Whoever Zeck truly is, he is capable of blending in, disappearing."

"You got all that after a bit of conversation?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Sometimes a lot is given away in conversation. More than you realize."

Gregson shook his head, but it was not in disbelief. Rather, the younger Holmes noticed the genuine wash of emotion on his face—that of a man quietly impressed.

"I'm afraid I can't give you much else to go on. My sight was badly impaired by the hood they forced on me as well as being kept in such dark conditions."

"I'll need to take all this down, as a statement."

"Of course." Sherlock then curled up, spent. Mycroft hovered nearby, trying not to show his emotions too much.

"Impressive." A slight puff of breath escaped Gregson's nostrils. "I'll tell you, if half the lads I've worked with had his talent, criminals would keep their distance. Only ever saw one other with that much spunk, and he's the reason I could transfer North."

The compliment was one Sherlock took to heart.

"Come," Mycroft said. "If we are not needed…?"

"No. Stop in tomorrow, though, once he's been seen by a doctor." Sherlock felt the clap of Gregson's hand on his shoulder again, and he realized he liked the feeling. "Unbelievable. Now I've got more questions for that character you dressed down earlier, Mr. Holmes."

"As do I," Mycroft replied.


	10. Chapter 10

It had been quiet in the year since Sherlock's death. For Greg Lestrade, however, routine became the catchword: there were still murders and other crimes yet to solve, consulting detective or no. There had been times he absently scrolled through his mobile to pull up Sherlock's number, having a case the younger man would have called "interesting." It took a few seconds thought to remember that that line now had no owner.

The thick manila envelope that graced his desk this particular morning made him actually made him ignore his donut in mid-bite. While the packaging was plain, the name scrawled across it was not. Nor was the large white envelope that accompanied it.

Lestrade sat down to his desk, setting aside his coffee and morning snack. He examined each parcel, finding no post marks or stamps on them.

He poked his head out of his office—the one he somehow was able to keep given the events of his last case with Sherlock. The DI firmly believed that Sherlock's creepy brother had something to do with that, though the theory, like most concerning Mycroft Holmes, could never be proven. It was early yet, and the only face he saw was that of the cleaning woman who would be off shift in about an hour.

Puzzled, he opened the white envelope first. It contained two different letters—one typewritten, one in an elegant script. Picking up the handwritten one, Lestrade began to read:

_I know you have had many questions concerning my brother's actions during that last case. I hope this might put a little light on the subject. This information is, of course, given in extreme confidence, though I can appreciate you might like to share it with those closest to Sherlock. I will come for these notes as soon as you have finished._

The letter was not signed. Lestrade knew who wrote it anyway. He set it aside, grasping the other, thicker document. The paper had yellowed with time, and the typeface was similar to those found on early printers. It was a statement taken during a kidnapping case some twenty years earlier, and as Lestrade read, it had a lot of similarities to the case of the American ambassador's children. Both crimes involved abductions from expensive public school dormitories, both involved the use of an abandoned factory site, both had the use of linseed oil as a means of…

_Oh, God help me,_ Greg said half aloud as he read the name attached to the file. Forgetting all pretense, and even the time, he snatched his coat from its usual resting place and bolted for the door.

* * *

"All right! All right! I'm coming!" a voice called out to his front door. The new flat was smaller than the one on Baker Street, but it still took forever to get from a dead sleep to the front door in a means presentable. "Give us a minute, yeah?"

John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he admitted the detective inspector. He hadn't seen much of the man in months—the result of the inquiry regarding Sherlock's death—but of late he had been meeting the man for a round at the pub. Losing Sherlock made John all the more determined to hang onto the people that mattered most, and it was as good a place to start. "What's got you all worked up?" he asked as the older man spread a file onto John's kitchen table.

"Remember we couldn't figure out why Sherlock was screaming at that housemistress, that last case?"

John's muddled mind clawed back to that particular incident. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I remember wondering how he knew so much about that case…"

"Me too. Until today." Lestrade pointed at the file. "Have a read. I'll boil the kettle. You're gonna need something stronger than tea when you're done."

Looking at his friend in disbelief, John settled into the kitchen chair and picked up a yellowed typewritten letter, reading the first few lines. "No," he said. "This _can't…_"

"Finish reading," Lestrade urged. "You still keep the Scotch by the fire, yeah?"

John finished reading, taking his time. There were diagrams and photographs as well, and he looked at each. "So _that's _how he knew," he said after a time. "I always thought he'd learned about the oil from some book…"

"More than likely did. But to put it to practice, that's something else." Lestrade had half-finished his second cup of tea, and had even popped down to the baker's on the corner for more donuts. "Didn't get my breakfast this morning," he said through a mouthful of custard.

"Still, though, it _does_ explain a lot. The bit about the housemistress, especially."

"Well, if you'd had a housemaster that had all but sold you off to God-knows-who, you'd think that way too. Sherlock didn't speak highly of the man, at least not in here."

"Which makes his treatment of the housemistress after his outburst all the more interesting. He _knew_ she wasn't behind it." John shook his head. "Good thing I'm off this week—don't think I could focus on patients after this."

"What gets me is that I should have known that," Lestrade said. "Toby Gregson was my CO when I made DC; he and I got on well. Took a transfer up to the Scots border about a year after I got there. We kept in touch."

"You spoke about cases?"

"Only the interesting ones. He was like Sherlock in that regard—liked things that were out of the ordinary. Now that I think about it, I _do_ remember him talking about this case. Said it was something to see a twelve year-old be so self-assured about what he knew—not cocky, but convinced of his being right." Lestrade let out a chuckle. "He'd have done a runner all these years later, with how Sherlock was near the end."

Even John had to concede that point. "He could be an insufferable git. But still a good man."

"Yes. Yes, he was." The DI picked up the file, stood up and started toward the door. "I wonder, though, if they ever caught this 'Zeck' fellow? File doesn't say."

"I wondered that, too," John said. "It almost…" He shook his head. "No, it can't be."

Heaving a sigh, Lestrade turned to face his friend. "Okay, gimme."

"Apart from the accent, the man Sherlock describes—in _great detail,_ I might add—doesn't he remind you of anyone?"

The dawning of realization spread across Lestrade's face. "No…"

"I'm not saying it was _him_…too young, I would think. Remember, I saw him—he and Sherlock were about even in age, almost but not quite mine. Maybe a relative?"

"Or a mentor?"

John nodded. "More likely, given the difference in accent. Sherlock would have known an Irish one, surely."

Lestrade smiled as he crossed the threshold of the flat. "We'll never know for sure, will we?"

"No. No, I suppose not. But thanks," John said. "At least one mystery is put to rest. Fancy a trip to the pub tonight?"

"Sure. I could drink to a great man," Lestrade said with a grin. "Why not?"


End file.
